The reminder of the attack makes Evran uncomfortable—he still doesn't feel like a hero, just someone who did what needed to be done. "Anyone would have done the same."
"But you're the one who did it," Aether points out, giving him a meaningful look. "Stop deflecting compliments. You're allowed to accept that you've done well here."
They settle into comfortable conversation, and Evran tries to focus on his food and the people around him. But his attention keeps drifting—his eyes seeking out that familiar figure at the high table despite his best efforts to stop.
He catches himself doing it for perhaps the fourth time and forces his gaze back to his plate, only to find Aether watching him with knowing eyes and a slight smile.
"You know," she says conversationally, "there's a perfectly good empty seat at the high table tonight. You've sat there before. Why aren't you sitting with him?"
The directness of the question makes Evran flush hot. "I just... thought it would be nice to sit with you and Tormund tonight. I don't want to presume—"
"Evran," Aether interrupts gently. "You're not fooling anyone. Least of all me."
Beside her, Tormund makes a sound that might be amusement and suddenly becomes very interested in his food, clearly choosing to stay out of whatever conversation his wife is instigating.
"I don't know what you mean," Evran says, but even he doesn't sound convincing.
"Don't you?" Aether's expression softens into something understanding. "It's alright to want things, you know. To want someone. You don't have to pretend otherwise, at least not with me."
The gentle observation makes Evran's throat tight. He stares down at his food, unable to meet her eyes. "It doesn't matter what I want. Some things are... complicated."
"Only if you make them complicated," Aether says. "Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one—just tell him how you feel."
"I can't," Evran says quietly, and the admission costs him something. "I can't risk... I can't lose what I have here by wanting more than I'm entitled to."
Aether opens her mouth to respond, but whatever she might have said is lost because Evran makes the mistake of looking up at that moment.
Vaike is watching him.
Even across the crowded hall, even with dozens of people between them, Evran can feel the weight of that steel-gray gaze fixed on him with focused intensity. The Warlord isn't pretending to look elsewhere or trying to hide his attention—he's simply looking at Evran with an expression that makes heat flood through Evran's entire body.
It's the same look from this afternoon. The same hunger barely contained beneath careful control. And this time, Vaike doesn't look away first—he holds Evran's gaze deliberately, as if makinga point, as if asking a question Evran doesn't know how to answer.
Evran's face goes hot, heat creeping up his neck and flooding his cheeks with color that everyone at his table must be able to see. His breath catches in his throat, his hands trembling slightly where they grip his fork. He can't look away, caught in the magnetic pull of Vaike's attention, trapped by the intensity of whatever is building between them.
Then someone speaks to Vaike, breaking the moment, and the Warlord turns his attention to whoever's addressing him. But the heat of that gaze lingers on Evran's skin like a brand, making it difficult to breathe properly.
"Well," Aether says, her voice full of knowing amusement. "That certainly answers that question."
Evran tears his gaze away from the high table and finds her smiling at him with an expression that's part sympathy, part exasperation. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, but it's a weak protest.
"Eat your food," Aether says, clearly deciding she's meddled enough for one evening. "And maybe think about what you really want, rather than what you think you're allowed to have."
Evran tries to follow her advice, tries to focus on the meal and the conversation, but it's impossible. His mind is spinning with her implications, with that heated look from Vaike, with the growing certainty that something has to give soon or he's going to lose his mind entirely.
He barely tastes his food, barely registers when people around him laugh at someone's joke. All he can think about is Vaike sitting at that high table, and the way he'd looked at Evran like he wanted to close the distance between them as much as Evran does.
Maybe Aether is right. Maybe he needs to stop assuming the worst, stop protecting himself from disappointment by nevertaking risks. Maybe it's time to be brave about something other than fighting off travelers or learning new skills.
Maybe it's time to ask directly for what he wants, and let Vaike make his own choice about how to respond.
The thought terrifies him. But staying in this limbo—wanting and wondering and never knowing—might be worse than risking rejection.
After the meal, people disperse to various evening activities. Some head to their quarters, exhausted from the day's work. Others gather in smaller groups to continue socializing, their voices carrying through the corridors. Evran walks through the stronghold with no particular destination in mind, just needing to move, to think, to try to sort through the chaos in his head.
His feet carry him through familiar passages, past workshops now closed for the night, past chambers where people are settling in for the evening. He finds himself in a quieter section of the stronghold, where the sounds of activity fade to distant murmurs.
The library.
